


Transfiguration of a Demon

by hanap



Series: 13 Days of Halloween [2]
Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Body Horror, Crowley Submits to the Mortifying Ordeal of Being Known (Good Omens), Crowley's True Form (Good Omens), Halloween prompt fills, M/M, Naga Crowley (Good Omens), Shapeshifting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-20
Updated: 2020-10-20
Packaged: 2021-03-09 03:35:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,091
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27117595
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hanap/pseuds/hanap
Summary: Aziraphale asks if he could see Crowley's true form, just once, but he doesn't quite know what he's asking Crowley to put himself through. (A prompt fill for racketghost's13 Days of Halloween.)
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Series: 13 Days of Halloween [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1978309
Comments: 22
Kudos: 127
Collections: Racket’s 13 Days of Halloween





	Transfiguration of a Demon

**Author's Note:**

> Day 2: Bones

Crowley inhales, and concentrates.

Transmogrification begins at the very frame of the being. The base of his spine. The centre of his corporeal form, where torso and hip meet, and it ripples from the inside out.

Vertebrae and pelvis dissolve into each other and elongate. To Crowley, it’s a palpable vibration, a grinding and stretching that brings pain and relief in equal measure. The core of his demonic self, tearing its way out of his human form, clawing its way down his body. A sensation of being crushed as his legs are forced together, and a sound that borders on profane rips from Crowley’s throat as the cords that bind his lower half tighten, an unholy pressure fusing his limbs together. His very bones scream in protest as they lengthen, and _break_ into segments – he clenches his teeth together, but it doesn’t do much to stifle the groan – he’s already lost count of the newly formed knobs of his spinal column, the ladder of ribs that pushes out sharply from his vertebrae to cage his shifting viscera.

Somewhere in the back of his mind, there’s a part of himself he keeps enveloped in an impenetrable bubble, carefully shielded from the transformation. The agony of it could drive a demon mad, he knows – he fears this the most, the risk of losing himself entirely in the shift of his body. He babbles to himself in distraction as his feet meld into the rest of his body. He wonders distantly if the merpeople in the fairy tales humans were so enamoured with feel this, too.

The tension in his muscles coils before releasing with a snap as his body grows longer and longer, all bone and gristle, muscle wrapping around the skeleton of his true form. Scales begin to take shape under his skin, each individual scale making a single precise incision to break through to the surface. Red as blood on his underbelly, the rest black as night, their otherworldly shimmer reminiscent of the unpredictable, hypnotising flicker of a flame. The scales spread upwards now as his lower body lies in piles of enormous loops on the ground, their sharp edges running up his back, a slow death by a thousand cuts – he cries out as the scales tear through the skin of his shoulder blades, right at the base of his wings.

For a moment, it’s too much. He loses his grip on the transformation and his wings pull themselves from the ether and into the physical plane, spreading wide as he arches his back, head thrown back, a sharp wail clawing its way out of his throat as the scales push out through the delicate skin of the divot where neck meets shoulder. 

In the quiet place of his consciousness, he thinks of selkies. He envies them and their ability to simply disrobe and step out of their sealskin in their human form. He supposes he dislikes the thought of someone finding his skin and keeping it for themselves. Losing possession of a physical manifestation of his very essence – the thought alone makes him shudder.

But perhaps things might be different if he _chose_ to give it to someone. For safekeeping. Somewhere it would be kept hidden and jealously guarded with a flaming sword. He thinks maybe he wouldn’t mind that.

Crowley winces at the itching sensation of his claws lengthening, the fangs elongating and sharpening in his mouth. The last thought he has is that it’s nearly over, half in mortification and half in relief. His eyelids thin and the urge to blink disappears, and his tongue splits halfway down the middle in his mouth.

For a moment, he gazes at the ceiling, lost in the strange fog of a serpent’s senses clouding his mind, panting slightly as he adjusts. The brand of the serpent on his face is burning hot. Already, the bone-deep ache is receding, replaced by a thrumming of an immeasurable power coiled in every muscle of his body. Slowly, he relaxes his outstretched wings, pulls them close against his back. He blinks once, slowly and deliberately, taking in the wreckage around him – wood and paper strewn everywhere, the sharp heady scent of leather and vanilla as he flicks his tongue out to taste the air.

A tiny movement catches his eye, and he whips around to see a startled face, blue-grey eyes wide and lips slightly parted. Crowley’s brow furrows. What is this?

A hand reaches out towards Crowley, and he hisses and bares his fangs as he coils the immense length of his body under him, rearing up and spreading his wings wide. But the creature is not threatened. The expression of the face shifts into something Crowley can’t identify. “Crowley, it’s me.”

His ears prick up. He knows that voice.

“My dear, it’s alright. It’s only me. Aziraphale.”

 _Aziraphale._ Crowley cocks his head in uncertainty, watching the creature slowly approaching him, and poises to defend himself, curling his lip to keep his fangs exposed. He stares as a hand is stretched out tentatively in his direction.

“Do you know who I am?” There’s a slight tremble in the voice, but it isn’t fear. Crowley inches closer, narrowing his eyes. He knows this creature. He flicks his tongue out again, and he tastes the notes that linger in the air – lavender, tea, and something clean and bright and indefinable, a scent he knows so well he’d recognise it anywhere. _Home._ It smells like home, and the scent memory stirs something so visceral that it rouses him at last, pulling him out of the quiet place in his mind he had hidden himself in. _Aziraphale._ A single word slips from his lips.

“Angel,” he murmurs, his tongue struggling to form the word, and he collapses into Aziraphale’s arms without further ado. “Angel.”

Crowley heaves a sigh of relief as Aziraphale’s arms wrap around him tightly. He buries his face into the warmth of Aziraphale’s neck, inhaling deeply.

“My love,” Aziraphale whispers into his ear. “You should have warned me about how magnificent you would look like this.” Crowley shivers as Aziraphale’s hands caress the scales on his back, and he hides his face against Aziraphale’s shoulder, suddenly embarrassed. “Thank you for showing me.” A kiss is pressed into his unruly mane.

Relief courses through Crowley’s veins as he relaxes against Aziraphale, too worn out now to feel shame. Here is safe, Crowley reminds himself, enveloping Aziraphale in the black mantle of his wings, the end of his tail curling around Aziraphale’s middle. “Anytime, angel. Anytime.”

**Author's Note:**

> My brain doesn't want anything but fluff these days. [Thank you to my ~anonymous~ beta for all the encouragement for this fic, even in the middle of studying for property and torts.]
> 
> This fic was born in the middle of daydreaming about Anti_kate's [And No Birds Sing](https://archiveofourown.org/works/23136616/chapters/55366798), my favorite naga Crowley fic in the world.
> 
> Come find me on [Twitter](https://twitter.com/contraststudies) and [Tumblr!](https://contraststudies.tumblr.com/)


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